


The Crimson Sellsword

by drunkinthemorning



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fantasy, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-07-24 16:07:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7514620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunkinthemorning/pseuds/drunkinthemorning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dragons came, and the kingdoms burned. </p><p>Margaery Baratheon, once Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, barely escapes with her life, saved by a mysterious sellsword with his blade forged of crimson steel. </p><p>Hunted by Targaryen soldiers and mercenaries for hire, she follows him north, away from the great blaze of King's Landing and into the longest of winters yet to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A story I've thought of during the earlier seasons. As I've started on the plot while watching the 4th season, many of the now dead (season 6) characters are still alive and in key roles in my story. So think of it as an AU of some kind, with characters like Tywin / Ramsey still well and alive.
> 
> In a way, the story resembles much of the journey of Arya Stark and the Hound. An unlikely pairing, traveling through the lands of Westeros, hunted by enemies and relying only on the other to survive.
> 
> In this story, Harry is a more realistic Harry. He's not the Master of Death, he's not an immortal dimensional-hoping god. There will be magic, but it's not the sort of magic you see in the HP universe, it's not all wands and casted spells, but more grounded in this world, like potions and charms. He's not exactly a wizard, but more of a mixture between one and a warrior. He doesn't have an affinity in spell-casting, but instead, strong survival skills and plenty of proficiency in handling a sword.
> 
> I'm not going to write a story with an overpowered protagonist, as there are already quite a few of those. Instead, the story will be more of an epic fantasy of some kind, revolving around their adventures and hardship, where danger lurks along their every path, with the kingdoms and even the weather itself, against their every move.
> 
> I do have a planned story arc which will reveal why he's Harry, and not just some other character with a similar name and appearance. It's a big reveal, and I do not really want to spoil the experience by simply listing his entire history and backstory in the Author's note. I think there'll be a lot more fun in showing rather than telling. So, do trust in me knowing what I'm doing, and enjoy the ride!

Armored scales colored the evening sky black, and the kingdoms of Westeros rumbled as thousands of bewildered eyes took to the above skies. There came a thunderous roar, and all of King's Landing rained dragonfire and death.

The red banner of House Targaryen stood steadfast in the gathering pandemonium, a beacon of coming terror in the form of madness and fire. The Unsullied marched into King's Landing, and they were as ruthless as they were fearsome – and those clasped in heavy iron, soon fell to those once locked in heavy iron.

The Unsullied stormed into the Red Keep, their wrath for all Seven Kingdoms to behold. The men of the Unsullied do not feel bloodlust, but there was something frenzied in their taking of King's Landing, rumored to be from the apparent death of their Queen. It was said that there was a deal between the Faceless men and the Queen Regent, an exchange in millions of gold dragons and the two preserved corpses of Joffrey and Myrcella Baratheon, in return for the head of Daenerys Targaryen, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea.

None knew of her fate, but there were rumors of an attempted assassination, and the Mother of Dragons herself had not been seen in days. Her loyal commanders led her sieges, and her dragons, without their mother, laid waste to the Kingdoms of Westeros. The Unsullied killed without mercy, and those surviving their vicious onslaught, shared similar tales of the Targaryen army's growing insanity.

The Red Keep was falling, but within its Great Halls, the Queen was crouching beside the King.

* * *

She tugged at his collar, but there came neither acknowledgement nor reply. His eyes remained open, and they were as blue as the once sky, before came dragonfire and death. But they were vacant, and they were as empty and as dead as the dozens of incinerated corpses around her. The air was heavy with smog and despair, filled with the fading echoes of men long dead, and the dying moans of those that would soon join in their eternal march.

 _The Sweet King is dead, and his beloved Kingdom burns._  
  
Her arms, singed by the flames, trembled painfully, and she could smell them, the lingering odor of burnt corpses and melted flesh. It overwhelmed her every sense, and as her stomach churned, her heart shattered for the one she held so dear to her heart.

_Her sweet, sweet, Tommen._

There came nine of them in the throne room, alongside her – King Tommen Baratheon and his nine loyalmost Kingsguard.

The men fought valiantly against the first wave of Targaryen invaders, and they died valiantly in combat and in blood. Now, with her eyes stinging from the smoke and the tears, with her dress torn and ripped bloody – she was the only one that remained.

Margaery Baratheon stayed by her fallen king, loyal to every fault, even as inevitability neared. While her marriage to Tommen Baratheon was nothing more than a formality to unite the houses of Lannister and Tyrell, she had grown to hold great fondness for her King. She swore to stay by his side, even if the dragons were to lay fire and waste to all of Red Keep. She curled up by his side, and his body was cold, even as flames razed fiery around her.

When the doors to the Great Hall swung apart, she squeezed her eyes shut, swearing that the only way to remove her from her king's side, was to peel away her bloodied corpse.

But instead of the Unsullied's march, only a single pair of footsteps echoed loudly in throne room. Margaery looked up from her husband's side, her fingers rubbing through the soot and the blood caking her eyes.

The approaching figure was not an Unsullied warrior, but a young girl, barely of age, and a person Margaery recognized, even beneath the layers of dirt and soot that colored her pale dress black – Alla Tyrell, a distant cousin and handmaiden of her own.

"Your Grace," the young girl ran to her side, panting heavily between words. "The Unsullied are coming. Tywin Lannister is pulling back what remains of his army, and the Gold Cloaks have all but abandoned their posts."

There was a loud crash, and the walls shook as rubble and dust fell from the ceilings above.

"Your Grace, please… we have to go," the girl begged. "There is nothing left but death."

Before Margaery was able to form a response, the Great Hall was greeted with the approaching march of Unsullied men. There were eight of them, their eyes reddened in madness and swords in blood. They marched upon the two unguarded women, and there came suddenly the sound of a drawn blade.

Alla Tyrell stepped in front of her queen, her hands trembling under the weight of a heavy iron sword. It belonged to one of the fallen Kingsguard, and the blade was all long as the girl was tall. But Alla – not without fear or even the experience of handling a sword, stood unfaltering between the four invaders and her queen.

She turned towards Margaery, and for a second, their eyes met, "Run!"

* * *

It was only when Alla Tyrell's screams were suddenly cut short by the simultaneous thrusts of spears into her chest, did Margaery come to realize the little time her fallen handmaiden had brought with her sacrifice. She pulled herself to her feet, her legs shaking, her heart threatening to burst free from her chest.

The Unsullied warriors – covered in her cousin's blood, turned in her direction.

She ran – as hard as she could, her heavy dress hiked to her knees, her bare feet sliced bloody by stray rubble and fallen debris. She ran in the direction of Tommen's chambers, the once highly guarded section of the Red Keep now completely abandoned and empty, the beauty tapestry torn and the marbled floors pooled red in blood.

She hurried into their chambers, making her way over to the corner balcony. She swung a leg over the side, her dress fluttering wildly over the hundred foot drop below. She hugged close to the outside walls, and she could see the desolated remains of Tommen's kingdom from where she stood; the Red Keep was crumbling around her; the Great Sept of Baelor was in fiery ruins; and the Flea Bottom, long eradicated by the arrival of Targaryen dragons, was no more.

Only the great blaze consuming the city remained.

Margaery followed the hidden footpath carefully – it was how she managed to sneak into Tommen's room all those years back – _their little secret_ , so they've kept. Twice she slipped on the uneven footholds, but eventually, she made her way to the below dungeons. The air was a lot colder, and she gasped when her bare soles pressed onto the chilling dungeon stone.

She pushed onwards, ignoring the unpleasantness and the occasional brush of unseen vermin against her feet. She unhinged one of the dungeon's torches – her only source of remaining illumination as she headed towards the castle's sewage exit.

She knew the Unsullied must have taken the castle by now – there was no other way out.

Margaery paused at the sewer's entrance, exhaling sharply before stepping into the muddied water. It came up waist deep, and for hours, she waddled through mud and filth before coming out by the castle's bottom end.

The first thing that came to her was the sound of ocean waves, smashing persistently onto the jagged rocks of Blackwater Bay. She ran towards the water, stumbling past sand and stone, cutting herself on their jagged edges as violent waves knocked her onto her back. She reached desperately for the water, trying to scrub herself clean of all the grime and blood.

It was a forlorn attempt, and eventually, she made her way back to shore.

* * *

A full day later, Margaery Baratheon, once Queen of the Seven Kingdoms – now barely recognizable in her current state, stumbled upon one of the temporary civilian outposts along the trail of Blackwater Rush.

The town had a name once, but she couldn't quite remember in her exhaustion. It was taken over by Targaryen soldiers, and opportunists had flocked to the small town from all over Westeros, opening dozens of inns and brothels alike, celebrating the recent victors with barrels of expensive wine and endless scores of willing whores.

She avoided the larger establishments in fear of being recognized, and stopped by one of the smaller inns, choosing a derelict building by the edge of town, the sign above the inn so long faded it no longer held any semblance to its once-name.

She entered the building quietly, and the doors announced her entrance with a noisy creak.

The old innkeeper looked towards her, alongside three men dressed in heavy knight's armor. Their eyes followed her every movement, and when she approached her seat, she noticed the presence of another – a cloaked figure sitting quietly by the corner, paying no heed to her arrival, content with only his drink.

She sat away from them all, her head held down as the elderly innkeeper approached. The old woman stopped before her, revealing large gaping holes where there should be teeth, "How can I serve ye?"

"Can I please have a…"

She was interrupted suddenly, as one of the armored knights shoved the old woman aside, sending her grunting into a pile of crates. The man then slammed his hands onto her table, his eyes narrowing onto hers in a most obnoxious manner.

"I know you…" the man started to say.

She quickly shook her head. "Ser, you must be mistaken. I'm just passing by, I'm…" She tried to look away, but her fearful actions only encouraged him to lean in further, his revolting breath and rotten teeth just inches away.

"You're…" he gasped gleefully. "You're the Queen!"

She stood up immediately. "I'm sorry, but you're mistaken." She started to inch towards the exit, only to realize it was already blocked by the second knight.

"Queen Margaery Baratheon," the second knight said. "Imagine the reward if we turned you in. I hear the Targaryens have quite the habit of feeding their prisoners to the dragons."

"What a waste," the first one sneered. "Think of all the things we can do to her instead." He licked his lips in a sickening fashion, his saliva slobbering all over his dirty armor. "I've never laid with a queen. I want to slit her throat while I enter her royal cunt."

"Dorvan, have some respect." The third knight spoke, and Margaery recognized the gold cloak he wore – a man of the City's Watch. "We are not savages."

"You…" her eyes narrowed onto his. "You're a member of the City's Watch."

He shook his head, "Your Grace, the City's Watch is no more. Now, we do all we can, to survive."

She took a step away from Dorvan, "You're… mercenaries? Then guarantee me safe passage to Highgarden, and I swear you'll be paid your weight in gold!"

"Haven't you heard, my lady?" Dorvan squealed in delight. "Highgarden is no more! The dragons burnt it to the ground."

Her heart fell, and before she could reply, Dorvan leapt towards her, striking her at the side of her face. The blow sent her crumpling, her face bleeding where he struck. He mounted her, pinning her down, his revolting stench closer than ever.

"No!" she screamed. "You can't! You're a knight!"

"A knight?" he laughed. "I took the armor off a dead man's corpse. He needs it no more than I do!"

Margaery struggled, but there was little she could do against a man twice her size, "Please! I can pay you!" She pleaded again, not to Dorvan, but the Gold Cloak standing behind. "Please! I'm your queen!"

The man only laughed. "The King is dead, and I believe we'll have a new queen soon." He turned back to his drink. "Dorvan, make sure not to mess the lady's face up too badly. We need her to be recognizable to collect our reward."

She screamed and swung her fists in Dorvan's direction, but he caught her wrists effortlessly, his grin growing even wider as saliva the color of rot dripped from between his lips. She tried to get to her feet, but he greeted her fierce resistance with another swing of his fist, sending her back to the ground as he tore at her dress. The fabric tore loudly, and he positioned himself between her legs.

He started to fumble with his pants, trying to get himself out of the armor when she found a grip onto a nearby pan – and with all her might, swung it in the direction of his head. There was a loud smack – and Dorvan fell grunting to the ground, his hands painfully clutching his skull.

The two other mercenaries laughed and cheered.

"You fucking bitch," Dorvan spewed between curses, "I'll fucking gut ya!"

Margaery scrambled up onto her feet, but there was nowhere for her to run. She staggered past the cowering innkeeper, her thighs bleeding where Dorvan had shoved her past a rusty nail. She tripped while trying to get away, falling near the cloaked figure by the inn's end.

She pulled onto his cloak, "Please." She begged, "Please help me."

He turned towards her, and beneath dark hair, were eyes of icy green.

Then – rough hands gripped onto her hair, painfully sending her tumbling backwards. Dorvan stood before her, a huge gash by the side of his scalp. It was bleeding profusely, but the blood only seemed to further excite him. He drew his dagger, collecting his own blood at its tip, then bringing it to his lips and licking the red clean.

He pressed the knife to her face next, not strong enough to draw blood, but more than enough a threatening implication. It slid downwards slowly, slicing into fabric, cutting away layers of her dress.

"Please, help me," she begged again, eyes finding the same pair of green. "Please."

Dorvan followed her gaze, and when the other man turned away, he exploded into laughter. He pointed towards the seated figure's cloak and sneered, "Do you not recognize his colors? He's a man of the Golden Company. How is a queen without kingdom nor coin, going to pay for an expensive sellsword man?" He leaned forward and mocked, "With your loyal cunt?"

The dagger dipped, and a line of red crossed her upper shoulder. She flinched in pain, and the mercenary threw himself onto her, roughly forcing her back to the ground. He forcefully parted her legs, and she squeezed her eyes shut, preparing for the worst.

Then, he screamed, louder than any man should.

Her eyes instinctively shot open, and saw the bloodied stumps that remained of Dorvan's hands. His jaw fell, and he screamed even louder, his mouth gaping large enough for Margaery to pry the dagger free from his fallen hand and jamming it between his lips.

He went silent, and blood gushed from the back of his skull, his lifeless body soon crumpling to the ground.

The two remaining mercenaries drew their blades immediately.

The sellsword however, stood silently between her and the two men. His blade was readily drawn – and it was as red as the pooled blood below, but not from the dead mercenary, but of the forged steel itself.

A blade of crimson steel – and it was glinting menacingly, casting the room in a shade of reddened luminescence, as though from the blood of its taken victim.

The two mercenaries exchanged nervous glances before starting to circle the lone sellsword. They were both visibly terrified, but they had strength in numbers, and they attacked at the same time.

The sellsword reacted immediately to the approaching two, his crimson blade coming up to one hand, meeting and blocking the swing of the first – at the same time, his scabbard shot to his unguarded side, catching the coming blade in mid-swing and using the mercenary's own momentum to stagger him forward – driving his sword into the other's chest.

Then – the sellsword pivoted, his blade swung high – and the remaining mercenary's head was sliced clean off his neck.

Margaery slumped to the ground, and as her adrenaline faded and exhaustion took hold, the coming darkness quickly consumed her whole.

* * *

Margaery slept for a full day – her first bit of rest since escaping from King's Landing two days back. The first thing she noticed, was how every part of her was in pain, followed by the stench of dusty rags and dried blood. Her dress was shredded and torn in bits, and her hair messy and covered in so much dirt and soot it seemed almost black from afar.

The elderly innkeeper approached and handed her a bowl of steaming soup. Her stomach growled hungrily in response, and she spent no time in devouring the entire bowl in one long gulp.

Then she started to retch and hurled the entire bowl of soup out.

The innkeeper shook her head and threw an old rag over the area of vomit before filling her another bowl, this time with a wooden spoon to the side.

Margaery drank much slower the second time round. It was her first meal since King's Landing, and her stomach was visibly still in discomfort. The stew was nothing more than simple spices and vegetables thrown together – a poor man's dish, but it tasted almost better than anything else  
she had tasted before.

When she was done with her third and then fourth serving, the innkeeper brought her a pair of inconspicuous men's clothing. Margaery changed out of her more distinguishable dress, her hair quickly tied up and hidden underneath the heavyset cloak that easily hid her lithe frame.

"Why are you helping me?" she asked the innkeeper afterwards.

"Man promised me dead men's coins for yer food and wear," she spat at the mention of the three dead mercenaries. "Told me I could keep em if I took care of ye."

"Where is he?" she asked, suddenly remembering the sellsword with green eyes.

"Gone, minutes before ye woke," the old lady motioned towards the exit. "Headin North me-thinks."

"Thank you, I will never forget your help," Margaery said. "Thank you again."

She found an unused pair of boots at the entrance, though slightly larger than her own. When she left the inn, she noticed it was early morning; the sun was slowly drifting from the east, and the morning drew gleamed radiantly amidst the hundreds of rotting corpses still not cleared from the battlefield.

She saw a few slow moving horses in the distance, and there were dozens of children running along the burnt fields, excitedly plunder those who no longer needed their gold. There were farmers too, tending to their crops, returning to a hint of normalcy after the chaos of war.

And finally, in the far distance, she spotted him.

A lone figure, without horse nor armor, but a single sword strapped to his back.

She started running in his direction.

* * *

"Hey!" it took her a bit of time and effort, but she finally caught up. When he did not stop, she shouted again, louder and louder until she got his attention.

He stopped, and she approached him quickly, quite visibly out of breath.

"I- I wanted to thank you," she stammered. "For what you did at the inn. If not for your help, I might have-…"

He nodded, acknowledging her thanks, before turning away and starting again on his journey.

"Wait," when he didn't, she grabbed desperately onto his cloak. "Wait!" The fabric stretched and he was suddenly caught at its end. "I'm sorry! But can you please just wait a second?"

He paused, then softly said, "Will you let go of my cloak?"

She nodded meekly, and released him immediately.

He plunged the heavy scabbard into the ground, kicking up a small storm of sand and dust.

A few long seconds passed, and she realized he was waiting for her to speak. "I... well," she started to say, not quite finding the correct words. "I-… Can I follow you? I don't have any gold to pay you, but I can help with certain... things, like carrying your bags, washing your clothes, cleaning your sword, whatever else you need!"

"All which I can do on my own," he said.

"But you're a sellsword aren't you?" she pointed out. "There must be something you want."

"Not something you can provide me with."

"You don't know that," she argued. "There is plenty I can do, especially when you're headed north."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You know who I am. Even if King's Landing is no more, I still have allies in the North." It was a partial lie. She _had_ allies in the North. "There are places and people that on your own, you won't have access to, not without my help. And I can get you what you need, I only ask for one thing in return. Your protection, at least until I'm returned to allies of my own." She paused, then quickly added in, "I won't get in your way, I swear. And if I ever slow you down, you can just leave me behind."

He was quiet for the longest time, before picking up his sword once more. "Draw your hood, we don't have much daylight to waste."

 


	2. Chapter 2

The rumbling storm clouds colored the evening sky as dark as night. The air soon grew thicker, forming clouds of gathering fog, quickly reducing the travelers' range of visibility near zero. They both knew it was ill-advised to continue in such weather, and thus, they diverted from the main road, heading into the sheltered woods instead. They trekked inwards, till they found a suitable spot to make camp, next to a nearby source of running water.

After the long day's march, she assumed they were somewhere near Brindlewood; they traveled without horses nor maps, but she trusted he knew the way.

 _North,_ he said, and it was all he had given her.

Margaery did not know much of the lands up north, but she knew Winterfell was under the current control of House Bolton, with Lord Ramsey Bolton declaring himself Warden of the North following the apparent assassination of his father. There were many rumors of Roose Bolton's death, from being poisoned by the vengeful family members of those he flayed, to even the blade of his own bastard, who was to be denied his father's legacy following the birth of Roose Bolton's legitimate newborn heir.

She also knew of the ongoing rebellions in the North, between House Bolton and those who refused to pledge fealty. She remembered, a week back, Tommen telling her about Ramsey Bolton's raven – House Bolton had requested additional support from King's landing in order to crush the remaining resistance.

Tommen had declined the request; they couldn't spare the men, not when the Targaryen army approaches from the east. She heard it resulted in House Bolton losing control of Moat Cailin and a thousand of their men – she did not know if he held a grudge, but she certainly wasn't expecting his hospitality.

She also heard the rumors of entire villages disappearing, said to be the fault of wildings raping and pillaging their way from across the wall. There were also stories of a wilding army gathering up north, with hundreds of giants and ice spiders, with men hundreds of thousands strong.

Regardless of the plausibility of the rumors and the tales she heard, the truth was – there was nowhere else more dangerous in Westeros than the North.

But, there were certain advantages in heading towards such treacherous lands; from them being harder to track in such harsher climates; to the weather itself being a deterring factor to those in pursuit; to even the simple fact that none might have expected her to head in that very direction. It was much easier predicting her journey south, towards the warmer regions of Westeros where she lived her younger years – in the direction of Highgarden.

* * *

Margaery remained behind when he went off in search of dry wood, and it was visibly apparent how uncomfortable she was with the current climate. She sat shivering in a pile of spare rags, her cheeks flushed red by the cold. When he returned later with just enough wood to keep the smallest of fires going, she quickly huddled near the flames, grateful for its warmth. He on the other hand, seemed entirely unaffected by the cold, and somehow, she knew the fire wasn't as much of a necessity for him, than the smallest of comforts for her. She was thankful for it, though her teeth were chattering too much for her to even mention gratitude.

It was too dark to hunt, and since they traveled light without any spare provisions, they went without dinner that night. It wasn't easy falling asleep on an empty stomach, but with enough patience counting golden roses, Margaery eventually did, until she woke abruptly in the middle of the night, barely able to breathe, her hands clutching painfully to her chest. She struggled frantically against the harmless sheets, pulling and ripping at the rags that shielded her from the night's chill.

She dreamt of him – of Dorvan, the mercenary she killed, lying in a pool of his own blood, a dagger sticking out from between his blooded lips, and his eyes, as lifeless and as dead as they were, staring up at her in a most condemning manner.

The lips moved, and they said, "You killed me."

Each time she closed her eyes, they came to her, in the form of vivid memories; from the sacrifice of Alla Tyrell, to the death of Tommen Baratheon, but most vividly, the death of Dorvan the mercenary – for it was a life she took by her own hands. The images were overwhelming, and as much as she tried convincing herself that she had no other choice, they just won't go away, and her hands just won't stop shaking.

She exhaled frustratedly, annoyed by her own persistent thoughts. She turned and twisted until the rags were once more in a comfortable position, and she now laid facing him – the mysterious sellsword, who was all but in a comfortable sleep, as though nothing stood in this world that could possibly threaten his peaceful slumber.

Margaery didn't quite know what to think of her quiet companion, and while she had always prided herself on her ability to read another person, and was perhaps the only one in all of King's Landing that could beat Tyrion Lannister at his own drinking game, she was almost certainly clueless to his enigmatic presence. They did not speak much on their day's journey; he seemed content with keeping only to himself, and she was more occupied with keeping her head down and avoiding the attention of others.

For the most part, she wasn't too bothered by the lack of conversation. It allowed her to focus on her thoughts, to fully comprehend the events that had happened. But now, there was also the realization that she knew almost nothing of him; she knew neither his plan nor his destination, she knew neither of his mission, nor even his name.

From his looks, she assumed he was a few years old than she was, with a sort of rugged handsomeness her handmaidens would have found most appealing. He spoke with a slight accent, but she couldn't quite place it yet, not with how little they've actually spoke. She had also noticed the markings on his sword's hilt, and while they might hold a clue as to his identity or past, the symbols – as brief of a glimpse as she caught, they weren't from a house or a banner she recognized.

His entire posture was an inscrutability she couldn't read, and there was nothing else she could deduce than what could be gleamed from his actions – he was well versed with his sword, and by refusing to turn her in for riches and recognition, she believed he had at least a shred of honor as well.

As she studied his sleeping form, she started to imagine the possibilities of his past. It was something she used to play with Lady Olenna Tyrell during their longer trips across Westeros - a way to spend their time while coped up inside weeks of carriage travel. They would each pick a random person, from a farmer passing by, to the accompanying knights of Highgarden, then come up with the most ridiculous and extravagant of backstories for each.

She wondered, _what sort of sellsword is he?_ And by habit, her mind started to wander.

She knew most sellswords were without honor, they were the sort of men that worked only for coin, and deemed nothing too immoral for another piece of gold. Most of those were either bodyguards or cannon folder for another king's war. For him however, she imagined him as a highly sought after mercenary, someone specializing in only missions of the utmost difficulty – a mercenary most skillful, and most expensive, who worked only for the most exorbitant pay. Quiet and deadly, someone who speaks little, but kills without hesitation.

Satisfied with what she came up, she turned her attention towards his sword next. Initially, she imagined it as a priceless heirloom of some sort, forged in the fiery mountains of east, passed down by his father and his father's father before him. Then, she imagined it as a reward of some kind from an earlier deed, like the rescue of a kidnapped princess, or the slaying of a warlord terrorizing a nearby village.

She knew he wasn't from Westeros, and she was contemplating between the regions he could have originated, when sleep eventually came.

They came plagued with demons and dead men, but it was sleep, nonetheless.

* * *

Margaery felt sore all over when she woke the next morning. The night was cold and filled with discomfort, the first thing she did was to stretch on her feet, trying to alleviate her painful joints.

Sunlight filtered softly through the forest's canopy, a warming reprieve to the night's fleeting chill. She noticed him standing near the river's edge, his blade half submerged in the water's flow. There was a soft glow of red where steel met water, but when she blinked, the glow dissipated, like it was nothing more than the water's reflective shade playing tricks on her mind. She rubbed her eyes, but the glow never came back.

He had found a few edible fruits while she slept, and she hungrily devoured them all before they started on their journey once more. They returned to the beaten path, her features again hidden underneath the cloak's raised hood. They walked in silence for the longest time, the journey uneventful and almost idyllic. It was half a day's trek later, when Margaery could no longer bear the silence, desperately craving for any forms of conversation.

"You are from Essos, aren't you?" she suddenly said. When he did not reply, she continued, more than content to indulge in a conversation with herself. "You do not have a Westerosi accent, and I know the Golden Company is headquartered in the Free Cities. But mostly, I know from your cloak."

"My cloak?" he asked, her assessment bringing an evident curiosity.

"Yes, it's thick, like what Northerners would wear in the cold. But yours is not made of wool, it's not as much for warmth, as it is to to block the sun and sand. Like the sort someone would wear while traveling across deserts, or, the dryer terrains of Essos."

"You're right," he said. "You have impressive attention to detail."

She shrugged, "I was bored, and I had a lot of time to think. Which brings me to a certain point. And a most curious question."

"Which is?"

"Your motives. You are part of the Golden Company, and they've sworn allegiance to House Targaryen. Men of the golden banner are said never to have broken a contract. You are breaking sacred oath by not delivering me to Daenerys Targaryen. And even if you are without the honor of those men, you must know of the gold they'll pay for my head." She paused, "So, I find myself wondering, what is more important to a sellsword, than honor nor gold."

She wasn't expecting an answer, but he replied, "I seek a maester."

"A maester?" she said blankly, "there are hundreds of them in the-"

"There is only one with the answers I seek," said the sellsword. "And being part of the Golden Company is nothing more than a means to an end – an opportunity to secure passage across the narrow sea. Once the war is over, I am freed from my obligations."

"So all you've done… is to travel to the North?"

"To the very ends of the Seven Kingdoms."

"That means-…"

"Yes, the maester is of the Night's Watch," he said. "Perhaps the wisest maester there is, and the only one with the answers I seek.

More questions emerged than answered subsided. However, before she was able to reply – there came a thunderous roar, and their entire world turned dark. A massive shadow emerged from the mountains, and scales of night black submerged the earth in growing black.

Margaery turned towards the skies – and came upon a most horrifying sight.

* * *

A dragon, the color of obsidian, filled the above sky.

She was rooted to the ground, but the sellsword reacted immediately. He leapt towards her, knocking her off her feet. The two of them fell into the nearby shrubs, and he yelled something in her direction, but she couldn't hear beyond the deafening roars. He motioned her to stay down, and he pulled her in the opposite direction. She understood, and they started crawling deeper into the vegetation.

The dragon continued its journey north, and before long, the shadow passed, and the sun returned.

She started to get up, but he grabbed onto her and held her down. "Wait," he said.

Then, came the sounds of thunderous hooves, and they remained hidden as an army of over a thousand marched by. They carried the red banner of House Targaryen, and the path they were on, clearly led towards the North.

"They are heading north," she turned towards him, "with dragons and an army."

He got up to his feet and started brushing away at the dried mud and clinging leaves. "They will be setting up camp along the main roads. We can't use them anymore, especially not if war comes to the North."

"There won't be a war," she said confidently. "They're likely heading in the direction of Winterfell. Ramsey Bolton will swear fealty. He's not the sort that will fight a war he cannot win."

They did not return to the main roads, but headed toward the forest instead. She had traveled plenty through Brindlewood, and on horseback, it was a day's journey between King's Landing and the Ivy inn. However, they traveled on foot, and it wasn't long before the sky turned dark once more, filled with ominous clouds as far as the eye could see.

"We should make camp for today," he said, and she agreed entirely.

They searched for a safe clearing when she came across a man-made path. She pointed it out and the two followed till they came upon gated land. There was a tiny farm, consisting of a little cottage and a rundown shack. There were a few goats lazing in the behind fields, but most curiously, was the farm's lone occupant – he stood at the entrance, shouting and waving in their direction.

"Wait here," he said, before cautiously approaching the man on his own.

The farmer was short and middle-aged, with a nose broken one too many times. His face was swollen - a recent injury, and he was clearly in distress. "Are you a knight, Ser?" he cried out. "You have to help me! They took her!"

"Who took who?" the sellsword asked.

"My daughter!" the man squealed. "The bandits took her!" His eyes fixed onto the sellsword's blade, "Please, you have to help her! They will kill her!"

* * *

A few minutes later, he waved in Margaery's direction, signaling her to come over.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"The farmer was attacked by bandits," he explained. "They stole his daughter along with a goat."

"That's horrible."

"When I told him I was a sellsword, he promised us room and board in exchange for getting his daughter back."

"How are you going to get her back?"

He pointed to the ground, there were muddied footprints leading into the forest. "They attacked not an hour before our arrival. The tracks are still fresh."

"They could be anywhere in an hour," she pointed out.

"Not in this weather. Not when night and rain beckons. They will be setting up camp. Somewhere near a source of freshwater. The farmer said we're only an hour's trek from the nearby river." He looked towards the sky, "If I do this right, we'll at least have a roof over our heads tonight."

"I rather not sleep in the rain," she softly mused. "Alright, let's go."

"Wait," he held out an arm. "You'll stay here at the farm. Let me do this alone."

"What?" she was visibly uncomfortable with his suggestion. "That's not happening."

"You'll be much safer here. I can work much faster if I don't have to look out for you." He paused, then said, "I'm not going to leave without you."

She started to argue, but when she realized how adamant he was in his decision, and that she'll only slow him down, she reluctantly agreed. When he started to leave, she blurted out, "W-wait."

He turned.

"Be careful?" she said. "Please?"

He nodded, and with a few additional steps, disappeared into the darkening tree-line.

* * *

The sellsword wasn't the most exceptional of trackers, but he had done his fair share of chasing down escaping targets. In this case, the bandits did not even bothered covering their tracks. He spotted four separate footprints – four bandits, one of them likely to be carrying the farmer's daughter. Their boots were too big to be a woman's.

He followed the muddy trail, and it led him deeper into the darkening forest. Night settled quickly over the above canopy, contouring the forest around him into comforting darkness. He was a fleeting shadow, barely disturbing the nature around him.

The trail came to an eventual end. But as it ended, came the sounds of a nearby river. The sellsword knew he was near an obvious camping ground, and it was where the bandits likely were. He kept low to the ground, silently creeping towards the water's source, close enough to observe the nearby areas, but never leaving shelter of the tree-line's shadow.

He followed the river downstream, until he spotted the flickering of a nearby flame. He moved closer, and saw four men sitting around an open fire. They had set up camp in a small clearing between the river and the forest – an open area without cover. He also noticed a motionless female lying to the side, her clothing in torn tatters and her wrists and legs bounded by rope.

The sellsword remained in his cover for a few long minutes, contemplating his next move. He knew bloodshed was inevitable, and given their current position, he had no other choice but to meet them head on. He studied the bandits closely – there were four of them, from different ages and background. The two that sat further away were older and more weathered, they were clearly more disciplined than the younger two, who had already downed more than half a dozen additional cups of ale since he started his observation.  
 _  
_He exhaled deeply, then stood up and stepped out into the woods.

_His sword will have blood tonight._

* * *

Grannon Sharpstone sighed for the hundredth time that evening. Given his way, his party should be at the Ivy Inn by now, and the seasoned warrior himself surrounded by beautiful whores and expensive ale. Instead, they were huddled next to a small flame in the middle of the woods, drinking the shittiest ale he ever tasted and freezing his one remaining nut off.

It wasn't as much his current streak of bad luck to blame, than his decision to tag along his partner's sellsword contract. Davith Hungert was a trustworthy man, and the two of them had fought in two separate wars under two separate kings and lived through both. Unfortunately, Davith's nephews, the _two fuckin' idiots_ as he'd like to call them, resulted in a change of their plans.

They've completed their contract hours back, but instead of promptly heading towards the next closest town and burying their cocks in the nearest whore, the _two fuckin' idiots_ had to raid a nearby farmhold, stealing the owner's shitty ale and kidnapping the man's daughter.

Oh and the goat too.

Because of their little detour, they weren't able to reach town before dark, and as the skies were quickly drowned by the gathering storm clouds, they knew they had no other choice but to stop and make camp, to at least wait through the night before resuming their way.

And now, even after getting them into this annoying situation, instead of keeping guard, the _two fuckin' idiots_ actually had the audacity to go ahead and drink all their stolen ale.

When Grannon Sharpstone left the previous king's army to crave his legacy as a traveling sellsword, he imagined a life full of gold and glory, not to find himself shivering his one ball off and playing babysitter to two drunken twenty-something-children.

Least of what he expected that night, was the arrival of another. The man stepped out from the opposite clearing, like an emerging shadow from the forest's edge.

Grannon got up to his feet and shouted a warning. Davith drew his blade immediately, his longtime friend recognizing the approaching danger. The two younger mercenaries however, did not share the two's apparent concern.

They were drunk and eager for blood. They weren't thinking.

Grannon started to voice a warning, but the two ignored him and drew their swords. They ran towards the approaching figure, and the one he recognized as Larren Hungert leapt straight into the air, his blade held high, its jagged edge catching a flicker of moon's glare.

There was nothing Grannon could do but watch, as the approaching figure took a step back – and in a burst of reddened steel, freed his own blade from its sheath – the sword lancing upwards and meeting the downward strike of Larren's blade. Then with a speed Grannon could not match, the man's sword arced forward, tearing into blood and sinew, leaving Larren's chest a hole of spluttering blood.

* * *

The first fell quickly, and the second stared at him aghast. The remaining bandit's hands were trembling, his eyes wide in terror - he blinked, and a part of him, beyond the drunken haze, saw and recognized the danger he was in. The man screamed in a high pitched voice, sword swinging forward blindly, swiping at the space in front of him.

The sellsword sidestepped the swing without much effort, then lanced forward – and the man's head was sent rolling across the muddy grounds.

The two remaining bandits drew their swords. They moved carefully, spreading outwards in a flanking manner to circle the lone sellsword. He moved as they did, constantly preventing them from gaining more advantageous ground. His eyes were kept in constant movement, tracking their approach and preventing a deadly flank.

The three of them came to an eventual still.

Time seemed to stop, and as a trail of perspiration ran down his neck – the two leapt fiercely in his direction.

The sellsword raised his sword and blocked the first swing, his body pivoting immediately to dodge the second – just as the previous swung towards him once more. He ducked instinctively, feeling the bandit's blade coming dangerously close to his scalp - as his own quickly spun in his grip, shooting to his flank and catching the second attacker's returning sword in mid swing. Then he shoved forward, sending the man stumbling back to regain his footing.

They separated, but it granted him only a second of reprieve – the two bandits resumed their attack almost immediately. They launched themselves at him in ferocious patterns; they were seasoned warriors, and it was evident in their skills that they had fought and killed together on more than a single occasion.

The sellsword blocked and parried swing after blow, he managed to keep up with their attacks, but he knew they were only bidding their time. They were counting on their continued aggression to slowly wear him down. Fatigue was taking hold, and he had to make an immediate decision.

The first bandit swung forward again, but this time, the sellsword did not block his coming blade. Instead, he lanced forward in the direction of the man's sword and sidestepping at the last possible second. The steel blade sliced through his cloak, inches away from skin. His own blade shot forward, but to his left, blocking the second assassin's swing, before he pivoted and slammed his sword down onto the passing blade of the first.

The momentum forced the bandit's sword into the below soil, and before the man was able to free his blade from the ground, the sellsword's own curved upwards – and divided the man's center into halves.

The second bandit swung at him immediately, roaring at the loss of his friend. Their blades clashed, and the sellsword lost his grip, but he barely flinched at the loss of his sword. He sidestepped the next swing with ease, allowing the bandit to step past him before lashing out with his boot, stomping forward and shattering the man's kneecap.

The bandit fell to the ground, screaming loudly in pain – and the sellsword closed the distance with a single step, reaching for the previous bandit's sword - which still jutted out from the soil, and spearing it into the remaining bandit's throat.

The heavens thundered, and a flash of lightning illuminated the area below. The sellsword was the only one left standing, amidst four unmoving corpses, his sword red in steel and blood. He retrieved his sword and approached the unmoving woman, who remained motionless even in all the bloodshed. He feared the worst, until he stopped by her side, and noticed she was still breathing, albeit still lost in unconsciousness.

He lifted her onto his shoulders, and was heading back into the forest when he heard the bleating of a nearby goat.

* * *

For almost five hours, Margaery and the farmer waited nervously, though for separate reasons. They were seated in the farmer's tiny cottage, huddled around a tiny candle. The man had his face pressed to the table, his hands clasped together in prayer. Margaery wasn't the religious sort, but still, she found herself praying for the sellsword's safe return.

Another hour passed, and there came a light tap on the front door.

The two of them shot to their feet immediately, rushing over to the cottage's entrance. The farmer threw the door open, and she was greeted with a most relieving sight – he stood in front of her, covered in blood, but none his own. He held the farmer's daughter in his arms, and she was unmoving, but still breathing.

A tiny goat stood beside him - the same one the bandit stole. It bleated happily at the sight of its owner.

He carried the girl to the back of the cottage, and the farmer tended to her wounds before brewing stew for them three. The cottage was too small to hold the four, so when they were done with the food, the farmer led them to the nearby shack.

The first thing Margaery noticed as they entered, was the smell of horse manure. She wrinkled her nose, but no further complaints came from her. She was more than glad to finally have a roof over their heads, irregardless of how foul-smelling their surroundings were.

After making sure they were comfortable, the farmer left, and the two were alone once more.

"Did you kill them all?" she asked afterwards.

He nodded, "Yes."

"Was it… hard?"

"Two of them fought like warriors, the other two-"

"No-… I mean," she said softly, "to take another person's life." She stared down at her hands, "Before yesterday, I've never actually physically harmed another person, much less killing someone on my own."

He was quiet for a bit, as though searching for the correct words. "It is never easy to take another's life. But in the end, you'll always make do. That's just how life works." He shrugged, "At the end of the day, what good is a sellsword who is afraid of taking another's life?"

"How long does it take?" she asked.

"For?"

"The nightmares to stop."

"It gets better in time. But they never truly do."

"That's depressing," she sighed. Something slithered in the nearby stacks of hay and she gulped nervously, pulling her knees to her chest. The smell of manure wasn't as overwhelming as they first entered, but it was certainly still quite visible. "This is definitely not where I imagined myself a few days back," she said.

"Could be worst," he said, referring to the gathering clouds above. "At least we have a roof over our head."

Then, as though the heavens were laughing at their misfortune, there came a loud boom of thunder and the skies started to pour. The rain was as heavy as either had seen, and before long, the cracks in the roof started to show. Water fell from the ceiling's leaks, and puddles soon formed at their feet.

Margaery sighed, then most unexpectedly, started to smile. She chuckled at the absurdity of their situation, and for the first time since the fall of King's Landing, exploded into hearty laughter at the irony of what he just said.

He stared at her curiously, not quite believing his eyes.

She slept well later that night.

 


End file.
